Safe
by many-themiles
Summary: Post-ep for "Where There's Smoke". Abby takes Kerry home, and then goes to talk to Susan.


You sat there, with Dr Weaver – Kerry – crying her eyes out in your arms, for a long time. Long enough for you to lose the feeling in both of your arms, and long enough for Kerry's grip on your arm to leave marks on your arm, of that you are more than sure.

After you found out – after Sam told you and the others – you had come straight upstairs. You had seen Sandy's grieving family, her mom, her dad and her brothers and sisters. You had seen a group of macho fire fighters standing around, looking almost on the verge of uncomfortable, their faces streaked with ash and tears.

You had spotted Elizabeth Corday at the nurses' station, looking down at a chart, her face distorted with anguish, with pain. "She's in there." Elizabeth had pointed you in the direction of the deserted room where Kerry sat silently, her hand resting on Sandy's helmet. What good that did when a building collapsed on her and collapsed everything your friend – you do count Kerry as a friend, even when though she's your superior, and you're a medical student, and the two of you don't always get along – had built over the last three years.

You were helpless to help; helpless to stop the pain, stop the metaphorical knife from digging around in Kerry's heart and pulling it apart, bit by bit. You had offered to help her; to look after Henry, give her a lift home. But instead, she had broken down and you had taken her in your arms; let her cry out as much of the pain you knew was coursing through her body as possible. Your shirt got soaked, covered in salty tears and mascara streaks, but you hadn't care.

--

Now you're here, in the arms of another, trying to forget about the day from hell. Your boards – you failed them like you knew you were going to; Sandy's death – unexpected; painful; sadly realistic in her line of work. "Abby, you okay?" Susan asks, and you look towards her with a soft smirk on your lips. "Shouldn't I be asking you that? You're the one who has just been ordered on bed rest for the next five weeks." Susan hardly smiles, and you're not surprised; five weeks of _nothing _sounds so...awful. She leans her head back in to the couch as your fingers move across a particular sensitive part of her foot. "Abby that feels so good. Thanks for this." You're more than happy to comply; to simply massage Susan's aching, swollen feet and ankles, rather than talk about what happened today. You just want to forget it happened, forget that Sandy is dead and that Kerry is at home, alone; alone again.

"How's Kerry?" She asks, and you can't hide it anymore: the pain – for Kerry and Henry, and a little for you – that has been consuming you since you came over to Susan's, to see her, alive and well and breathing.

"Not good. Those tears streamed down her face the whole way home. I shouldn't have left her. I offered to go in with her but she didn't-" You start, but your hands have stopped moving along Susan's feet and as you look to her, you can barely see her for the tears that cloud over your eyes. "Abby, you did everything you could have done. I wasn't even there; I'm stuck here on my sofa for the next five damned weeks." Susan sounds so frustrated that you can't help but laugh, even when the tears are still threatening to spill. "Abby really, you did-"

"I know." You interrupt Susan abruptly, and immediately feel bad for it. You go back to rubbing her feet. "I just feel so helpless, you know. Sandy was all she had. You're all I have. If I lost you, I don't know how I'd cope." That brings it home for the both of you; Susan swings her feet off your lap, and moves to sit directly next to you. "I'm not a fire fighter, Abby, and I'm going anywhere soon." You know that Susan's not going anywhere – and even if she thinks about it, you know you can tempt her back with a glass of wine, a foot rub and some well-cooked Thai food – but it doesn't stop you feeling bad.

--

Kerry – and Sandy – had obviously eaten curry last night; their apartment had smelt of it, and the overnight smell of cold curry had reached your nostrils as you had helped Kerry into her own apartment. Somehow, some time after she had broken down, you had gotten up, supporting Kerry, and made your way out of the hospital – through the ER, where there was no shortage of people (nurses, doctors, patients alike) staring at the two of you, as you had slowly made our way through the crowded corridors – towards your car.

Home. You had gotten her into the apartment, but what to do then? You had had no idea. You had shut the door and turned to Kerry, who had promptly limped as fast as possible to the bathroom, where you had heard her lose the contents of her lunch; her breakfast; her last meal with Sandy, and then you had heard the sobs. The overwhelming, loud sobs of Kerry as she sat on the floor of her bathroom, a mess, her hair everywhere, her scrubs – she hadn't changed; had obviously thought better than to try that when she was finding it hard to stop crying for even a minute – crumpled, her crutch haphazardly leaning against the sink. You hadn't known what to say; hadn't known what would make it better. Instead, you had flushed the toilet, had helped Kerry up and had helped her change into something more comfortable than scrubs.

It had been obvious she hadn't been comfortable with you helping her change, but it had also been obvious to you that she hadn't been up it herself, hadn't the energy nor the will. "Kerry," you had said, "let's get you changed, okay?" You had been sympathetic; had led her into the bedroom, where their – Kerry's now, just Kerry's – scruffily made bed had only made your heart ache for her more, and had helped her into some joggers and a sweater.

The joggers had been far too big for her, and as the two of you had made your way into the front room, you had realised that they had been Sandy's. Kerry had collapsed on the sofa and had let her crutch fall loudly to the floor. She had tugged the ends of the sweater over her hands; had wiped them against her wet cheeks. "This...was...Sandy's," she had muttered and then she had taken a deep breath before she had looked up at you; she had told you to leave, to go home. You had almost refused – you hadn't wanted to go; hadn't wanted to leave Kerry alone – but she had insisted. Had all but shouted you out of the apartment.

--

You're home now, and you're glad that you are. Glad that you're here, with Susan, not alone and grieving like Kerry. You're glad you have Susan and – albeit unconsciously- you're glad that she's a doctor, not a fire fighter. "I love you, Susan," you run your hand through Susan's hair, and let your palm rest on her cheek. Susan smiles at you and you can't help but smile with her. You lean over her protruding stomach to softly kiss her on the lips: "I love you too, Abby" she breaks the kiss to breathe the words and then she gasps. She grabs your hand, and places it, with her own warm hand, on your stomach. "He...she...it's kicking," Susan smiles at you and you can't help but laugh at the look of pure pleasure on her face. "We're gonna be okay Abby, we're gonna be fine," Susan tries to reassure you, and for now – in this intimate position on the couch, your bodies close and your minds even closer – you believe her.


End file.
